


Let Me In

by Merwin_Me



Series: Teen Wolf One-Shots [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bit of Comfort, Blame horror games, But Mostly Hurt, Gen, Hallucinations, Horror, Hurt, Illusions, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insanity, Nemeton, Nightmares, Nogitsune, Nogitsune Effects, Panic Attacks, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pretty much all hurt, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 23:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12376737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merwin_Me/pseuds/Merwin_Me
Summary: ...Stiles...“If you mean the nightmares, they started the night after we were almost sacrificed.” John spoke up, sounding both tired and worried sick. “He wakes up every morning, trashing and screaming, but he usually wakes up when I speak to him and hold him down.” The ‘to prevent him from hurting himself’ was silent, but implied.“This doesn’t look like any nightmare, sheriff.”...Let me in...





	Let Me In

Ever since he had fake sacrificed himself to the magical tree stump in the woods, Stiles had been suffering from nightmares every night, leaving him trashing around in his bed, screaming and wailing as he attempted to pull himself from his dreams, to pull himself away from the nightmares where he would inevitably end up standing in a room with the Nemeton, hear it whisper promises to him if he just let it in. Every night, Stiles would wake up with a scream and arms locked tight around his chest, trashing on his bed for a couple of minutes as the last of his nightmares slipped away until he was lucid enough to realize it was his dad holding him, trying to keep him from hurting himself with his trashing.

 

The Stilinskis hadn’t been getting much sleep since the night of the sacrifice, and every morning the bags beneath their eyes grow darker and more pronounced, their tempers shorter during the day, and half hour naps have started to become a necessity for Stiles. It appeared that 30 minutes was the longest he could sleep peacefully before the nightmares would set in again.

 

So when Stiles woke up after a long night of uninterrupted sleep, without being held down by his dad, without scratching at his own arms or slamming his flailing limbs against the wall, Stiles took a long moment to just lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. He just slept a full night, without a single nightmare waking him, without waking his dad.

 

When a beam of sunlight hit him, once more driving home that it was morning and he had slept through the night, Stiles stood up with a grin. Grabbing a pile of clothing from the chair, he moved to the bathroom to freshen up a little and really start the day. He’d have to make his dad a good breakfast or something, for all the sleepless nights that the man had endured with him lately.

 

As Stiles rinsed his mouth and toothbrush, splashing some water in his face to freshen up, he took in his reflection. Perhaps it was simply his imagination, but his cheeks looked like it had a little bit of its color back, his skin no longer looking as pale and gray as it had before. The bags underneath his eyes, while still terribly pronounced and deep, no longer made him look like an actual raccoon. Just a severe insomniac.

 

He didn’t even look at the rat’s nest that was his hair, he’d need a good and long shower to have that return even remotely back to normal. Might be an idea to just buzz it all off again, keep himself from pulling at it and making it worse all the time.

 

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Stiles pulled his brush quickly through his hair, wincing when it tugged at tangled strands, before ending up having to discard it as a lost cause. His hair needed shampoo, not brush abuse.

 

Down in the kitchen after having put the coffee machine on, Stiles started busying himself with making the most amazing, fluffy pancakes for his dad. The man certainly deserved the unhealthy food, even deserved the extra syrup Stiles would grandly allow him to consume, for putting up with his endless nightmares and fits.

 

On second thought…Stiles also added a small bowl of cream. And, just to add a healthier option, Stiles cut up some fresh fruit and mixed it up with a small bowl of yogurt. His dad could have all the pancakes his healthy heart desired, but at least he’d also be eating something healthy besides it.

 

No matter, the dinner Stiles was already preparing in his head would be more than healthy enough to compensate for all the extra fats and calories consumed during breakfast.

 

When the door to the kitchen opened, Stiles turned towards the movement, giving his dad a small grin as he saw the surprised look on the man’s face. Yea, he was just as surprised as the Sheriff that he had gotten a full night of sleep.

 

“You look a bit better, kiddo.” His dad finally spoke up after having taken a long moment just to get a better look at his son, and he moved towards the stove, ruffling Stiles’ hair as he passed him. “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

 

“I had a great sleep, I didn’t have a single nightmare, and I woke up without screaming. Maybe it’s finally over, you know?”

 

As Stiles spoke, he turned his attention back to the stove and to his pancakes, frowning a little when he noticed that he had, apparently, automatically flipped the last couple of pancakes on the plate already. With a shrug, he took the plate that had what was practically a small tower of buttery goodness stacked on it, and put in front of his dad’s chair. Pointedly also placing the bowl of yogurt besides it.

 

“Tada! What do you say, dad?”

 

When he didn’t get an answer, Stiles looked up, expecting his dad to be practically drooling over the pancakes, one of the official Forbidden Breakfast Foods in the house.

 

Instead, Stiles found his father standing with his back to him, staring at the coffeemaker. He frowned. Why was his dad wearing a suit? Was there an important event at the Sheriff’s station that Stiles had forgotten about?

 

“Dad?”

 

His dad seemed to shake himself, reaching for the coffeemaker to grab the filled glass container. Instead of turning around and moving to sit at the dining table, he paused again for a bit.

 

Just as Stiles was about to ask his dad what was wrong, the coffee pot crashed into smithereens against the wall to his left, only just barely not spilling any of the scalding coffee over him. With a belated shriek, Stiles flinched away from the noise and the pieces of glass that scattered all over the kitchen floor, turning wide eyed to his dad.

 

Only to freeze as he stared into the hateful, hazel colored eyes of his angry father, who was indeed wearing a crumpled black suit with a white blouse and black tie.

 

“You killed her.”

 

A funeral suit.

 

“You _killed_ her, you little brat!”

 

The lighting in the room had changed. No longer was the sun casting warm, bright light across the walls and tiles. The sky had turned dark, the moon high in the sky and seeming to be silently mocking Stiles.

 

“You’re a demon!”

 

Mocking him for believing for even a minute that he had gotten a reprieve.

 

“Dad…”

 

The wallpaper was turning dark, the shadows making it seem like the walls were alive, twisting and turning, weeping a dark substance that quickly formed puddles on the floor, beneath his father’s—his nightmare’s—feet and his own. Until the light of the moon hit the puddle beneath his father’s feet, causing it to gleam a sickly, dark red at him as it spread even faster and faster, every wall in the kitchen now dripping with _blood blood blood_ as his dad opened his mouth again and—

 

“You are no child of mine!”

 

A sob got stuck in his throat— _it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real_ —as Stiles turned on his heels and rushed out the kitchen, running towards the stairs even as he heard heavy footsteps follow him, trying not to stumble as he noticed the walls blinking at him, crying tears of blood from his mother’s green eyes.

 

Had the hall always been this long, this unending, the stairs so far away? His father’s footsteps this heavy? His screams this angry?

 

Just as Stiles was ready to stop running— _had he ran for a minute in their short hall, ten minutes, an hour?_ —he finally reached the stairs, and he took them two at the time. At one point, on one step he had to pause on for a second so as not to lose his footing, Stiles was sure he felt fingertips brush over the back of his neck, just barely missing him.

 

He put in an extra burst of speed, almost stumbling as words started appearing on the wall the stairs were attached to, following him up in a snaking pattern, taunting him— _murderer, killer, demon demon demon, monster, you’re killing me, killer, I should have killed you when you were a baby!_

 

Stiles nearly tripped over the last step, but managed to catch himself by half falling against the wall. As his shoulder smacked against the wall, it shrieked in his ear, immediately making Stiles pull away again and turn even as he was scrambling to reach his room.

 

A face, his _mother’s face_ , was a stark relief on the bloody wall, eyes glaring and crying and accusing him, lips parted and screaming wordlessly at him.

 

Stiles blinked rapidly.

 

The face had disappeared the moment he opened his eyes again, but his angry, screaming father was coming ever so closer, face twisted in anger, lips spewing hatred even as a bottle of whiskey was slung his way, shattering across the door to Stiles’ room as he slammed it closed behind him.

 

Ignoring every flight instinct, though it would be less ignoring and more not currently having the ability to utilize it, Stiles scrambled to the ground besides his bed, back against the wall and knees pulled up high against his chest.

 

“You worthless child, good for nothing piece of shit! You should have never been born!”

 

As his father raged outside the door, Stiles blocked his head between his elbows, clasping his hands over his ears in an attempt to drown out the screams.

 

The moon smirked down on him through his window.

 

————

 

“I could hear him screaming a block away.” A smooth, cultured voice spoke behind him, and John turned from where he was leaning against the wall in his son’s room, as far from his cowering figure as he could manage without being outside of the room. As much as it pained him to be so far from his crying son, he found that the moment he moved closer, Stiles started screaming and trashing, scratching at his arms as if he was trying to get something off of him.

 

As he turned to look at the new voice, John took a precious moment to blink in surprise at Peter Hale, before turning his attention to his son, his kid who was suffering from a waking nightmare he could not seem to help him with.

 

Talking hadn’t worked. Yelling hadn’t worked. Trying to hug his son had almost sent Stiles into hyperventilating out of blind terror. He couldn’t help his _son_.

 

“He hasn’t stopped. Screaming, that is.” John’s voice was barely above a whisper, very much aware that if he spoke any louder, his son would probably have another fit and start trashing and harming himself again.

 

“How long has this been going on?” Peter dropped his voice as well, looking between the tired sheriff and the form of the cowering teen with a curious but concerned look. He had noticed the raccoon eyes the boy had been sporting these last couple of weeks, he just hadn’t realized that the boy wasn’t just having nightmares, that the situation was almost infinitely more dire than he had at first thought.

 

The slightly bleeding scratches on the boy’s arms were obviously caused by himself, and considering that the sheriff wasn’t moving towards his son to offer comfort or to stop him from harming himself, Peter could easily deduce that by keeping his distance, the sheriff was aiding his son somewhat in whatever nightmare he was stuck in.

 

Even though doing so seemed to be slowly killing the sheriff.

 

“If you mean the nightmares, they started the night after we were almost sacrificed.” John spoke up, sounding both tired and worried sick. “He wakes up every morning, trashing and screaming, but he usually wakes up when I speak to him and hold him down.” The ‘to prevent him from hurting himself’ was silent, but implied.

 

“This doesn’t look like any nightmare, sheriff.” Peter mused even as he slowly moved to a crouch besides the sheriff, aware of the dazed, hazel colored eyes that were peaking up at him from where they were mostly hidden behind knees. Also very aware of the fact that while the teen was looking at him, he definitely wasn’t seeing _him_.

 

Stiles hadn’t ever been this terrified of him, and right now his terror was stinking up the room.

 

“This morning was different. I heard him screaming and crying, but when I came in I found him like that, against the wall. When I grabbed him he—” John choked on the words, unable to describe his son trashing in his grip, screaming that he was sorry, that he _didn’t mean to kill her_ , that he’d make it right, sobbing promises of _making it right_ even as he scratched at himself, biting his own arms, hitting his head against the side of the bed, the floor, the wall, everything he could reach.

 

It was only when John had let him go for a second, in order to hopefully find a better and safer grip, that he had watched as his son scrambled across the room and huddled against a wall, no longer trashing or screaming or scratching or biting. Just huddled, terrified and trembling, still lost in his mind, in his nightmares, but no longer harming himself.

 

“—I quickly realized that the closer I get, the more he hurts himself. He’s…I don’t think he’s seeing me.”

 

“Probably a twisted version of you, a worst case version of you, if you will. If whatever followed them out after the ritual is inside Stiles’ mind, it can make him see whatever it wants Stiles to see. His worst fears come to life.”

 

Claudia at the end of her illness.

 

Him at the lowest point in his life where alcohol and his job came before his son.

 

“Can you get closer to him?” John was aware that he sounded more than a little desperate, but he couldn’t bear to see his son like this, to see him hurt like this for so long, with there seeming to be no end to the pain. It wasn’t simply a nightmare John could wake him up from, no, they were apparently past that phase.

 

This? This was so much worse.

 

“I can try, but I need you to know that whatever he is seeing me as, he is already terrified of my presence.” Peter tried to bring it as gently as he could, but it still didn’t stop John’s expression from dropping, despair showing in every line of his face.

 

Sighing softly to himself, Peter turned a critical eye to the whimpering teen, taking in how every few moments the boy clasped his hands over his ears again, as if to stop himself from whispers that were all inside his head, penetrating through every slice of silence he attempted to grasp.

 

The path that this unknown entity was pushing Stiles to lead only to madness and insanity, as Peter could attest to. And he wouldn’t wish that sort of mental anguish on anyone except his enemies, something Stiles had never been. He’d need to be fast. Good thing he was a Werewolf.

 

Peter had barely the time to notice that John was about to say something, probably still searching for a solution, before he was up and moving across the room at Supernatural speed. He didn’t give the teen enough time to do more than flinch and freeze, before he was kneeling on the floor, pulling Stiles on his lap and trapping his arms between the boy’s back and his chest as Peter locked his arms around him.

 

Even as he locked the boy’s torso and arms in place, he lifted his legs a little from where they lay between Stiles’ twitching legs, only to cross them to the outside and pressing down as much as he could. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable position, but it aught to do the trick for however long it took to pull Stiles out of his nightmare.

 

At least now the boy could no longer hurt himself, though the screaming had started again. Screams that were no longer about how he killed her, but were now sobbed _I don’t want the—no no no, I don’t—no, not the bite, please, no no no no no, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, no please no no no—_

 

Well. That answered that question at least. It wasn’t the current Peter that Stiles was seeing in his nightmare, it was crazy Alpha Peter. And undoubtedly the entity that was playing games with Stiles was having fun coming up with scenarios that had never happened but held a small grain of truth, of what had truly happened, in there.

 

So maybe, just maybe, he needed to shock Stiles awake, hope that drowning out all the noise that was overwhelming the teen would wake him up. It wasn’t like he was an expert in these sort of things, but there was one method that always worked for wolves and their pack. He just hoped that the fledging pack bond he held with the teen would be enough for the call to reverberate through him both out loud and mentally.

 

Looking John in the eye for a second, Peter let his eyes bleed into their Supernatural, ice blue color and felt as his fangs lengthened. Taking note but ignoring the alarmed look on the sheriff’s face, Peter took in a deep breath.

 

And _roared_.

 

————

 

“D—dad? Peter?” Stiles was trembling against Peter, who was still holding him to his chest, arms trapped just in case Stiles went, well, crazy again. “There's something wrong with me, isn't it? Inside—inside my head. It’s all wrong…’s all wrong…”

 

Stiles started crying, sobs being torn from his chest with great, rasping gasps that were probably as painful as they sounded. John and Peter could only hold the boy as he shattered and fell apart.

 

His solution had worked this time, had pulled the boy back to the waking world, but Peter couldn’t stop his eyes from flashing one last time.

 

It worked this time, but would he be able to wake the boy when he was inevitably pulled under again?

 

Peter prayed like he had never prayed before, not like he’d ever prayed before, that it would be enough.

 

_…Stiles…_

 

So of course it wouldn’t be.

 

_…Let me in…_

 

* * *

 

I have a Tumblr, drop me a message over at [Merwin_Me](http://merwin-me.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> I just watched a Layers of Fear play through, okay. So just be glad there aren’t children running around leaving crayon markings, because that’s _genuinely fucking horrifying okay_. Oh hey, play through was by Scary Game Squad. Both hilarious but still scary (apparently, I woke up my dad by screaming this morning. Something I can’t remember doing, nor do I remember having a nightmare. Horror games, you are fun)


End file.
